Do or Do Nut

There were two things Nick was always concerned about: his job and his feet. His job, which paid his rent, bought his groceries, and kept his lights on in his tiny studio apartment. And his feet, which were a constant source of discomfort. Whether it was ill-fitting shoes or simply flat feet he could never find relief. So between working seven days a week and not having reliable transportation, Nick found himself walking to work on sore feet every day of the week. Except today. Today, instead of leaving at 5AM, he didn’t have to go in until 9 as his boss required him to work later. A twelve hour shift. Nick managed to justify it in his mind by thinking of the extra money he’d get for the longer shift. As he closed and locked the door behind him he was reminded by his already stinging feet that they would be having an hour long conversation while he walked to work.

Three blocks from his apartment there was a fairly new donut shop that he had never tried before due to his early departure each morning. The shop didn’t open until 6 and closed at 1. He guessed the owner never realized that a donut is good anytime of the day and not just for early risers. But it was only 8 and he thought it would be his best chance to try their wares. It would give him something to fixate on during his trek, pulling his mind away from his ceaselessly angry feet.

The door chimed as he entered and his senses were immediately witness to a celebration of input. The walls all painted with the same shade of nostalgic bubblegum. Neon blue accents here and there called out the words, “Scrumptilicious, Magnumarvelous, and Wonderfulific,” each one scratching feverishly at Nick’s vocabulary. The room was packed full of sweet grease smells and some peppy music popping and snapping around him. “Welcome to Do or Do-nut!” called a jolly looking man behind the counter. “Feel free to grab a number and we’ll be with you in a sweet minute!” He pronounced the name as “Dew or Dew Nut.” Some OCD trigger began blaring in Nick’s head.

He looked at the crowd of zealous donut hounds pacing and squirming before the display cases. He pulled a number from the small, shockingly pink, ticket machine next to the door - 333. Placed high on the wall above the pricing matrix was a number display that read, 299. Nick felt crushed by the wait and was about to leave when he decided to take a look at the case for future reference. He navigated as close as he could and used his height to snatch glimpses from behind those hovering unnecessarily close to the displays, heads as big as planets, each with some vain hope a donut may somehow manage to teleport free of the case. What he saw canceled any thoughts of leaving empty handed. Rows of big, fat, pillowy, heavenly donuts each one iced, smothered, encased, sprinkled, and/or dripping with additional joys too numerous to count. Contrarily, there were also a few plain ones for the unimaginative that still managed to trigger an ancestral drive of survival of the fittest. Nick’s pupils enlarged and his mouth began to pump in extra saliva for the upcoming power rush of sugar. So enraptured by the sight he completely forgot about the pain in his feet.

“332!” So began the longest minute of Nick’s life. Civilizations came and went, entire planets were born and died, and still his number was not called out. The baby he noticed when he came in was now on a walker. He anxiously ran his hand through his waist-length beard.

“333!”

He unconsciously let out a short scream as he frantically waved his number ticket into the air. He heard someone say, “Lucky,” somewhere behind him as he endeavored to push through the crowd. The front row of people as broad as Iowa and as immovable as Rushmore. He sliced sideways, torquing through tiny fissures, folding himself like a paper doll. Someone spat out “Excuse you!” into his ear as he slipped between elbows. Finally he saw his goal gleaming like a beacon, a proud, tolerant lighthouse showing the way to paradise.

“What would you like, son?” asked the Jolly Baker whose embroidered name on his smock read, “Toots.”

Temporarily paralyzed by the name reveal, he stuttered and coughed out, “Th…That one,” and pointed in the direction of the case.

“You’ll have to be more specific, young man.”

Nick tried to move closer to the case to point to the one he wanted but Salmon knew less resistance than his fight through the dense throng, fearful of leaving the bright glow of the display case lest they be swallowed by the eternal darkness of a donutless world.

Finally. “This one here!” emotion causing him to shout, his finger stabbing the glass almost to the point of cracking.

“Just one?” A forlorn response.

He panicked. One? Would this be the only order he would ever be able to place? What if by some tragic happenstance the place burnered to a cinder almost as soon as he left? A singular visit for each lifetime? Did these people know that the business was shuttering their doors after today and he was the ignorant sap that stood in line for hours only to order a single donut? “No! A dozen! NO! TWO DOZEN!”

“Two dozen of this one?”

“YES!” suddenly unable to not scream his answers.

“You got it, kiddo.” and with that Toots boxed up two dozen of Nick’s choice into cardboard boxes of impossible pink with blinding blue letters spelling “DO” with a little happy-face donut as the “O.” So euphoric he went through the payment and exit in a stupor. His victory complete, his treasure cradled in his arms like a newborn, tears of joy dampening his eyes.

As he walked along the street he found his mind replaying the experience, enthralled by all of the sights and sounds, overwhelmed by his good fortune. He couldn’t help but notice the last donut Toots placed in his box was the last one of that variety in the case. Were there more in the back? Hell no, he told himself. I got the last of them! A champion! He fought, he won! The prize? Two dozen of the Last Donuts. He felt a swell of pride and a new vibrancy energized his stride. The day brighter, the air sweeter.

He stopped momentarily to pry open one of the boxes. The fragrance of the interior wafted over him. This is what heaven smells like, he thought and he wrapped his fingers around one of the soft confections. As he lifted it to his lips he felt the first drops of saliva splash onto his hand, then upon the donut. Then they were dammed by the fat pastry as it rested on his tongue. He bit down, enraptured in the feeling of the donut, the slight resistance of the topping enveloping its waiting heart and the gentle give of the pastry to his teeth. It caressed his tongue letting its buds soak up the mixture of flavors, the blending of textures almost sensual in appeal. Then it was gone and his hand was back in the box for another.

It was 30 minutes before he realized two things.

First was that his feet didn’t hurt as he walked along the familiar route to his work.

The second was that the cost of the donuts easily offset the extra pay he would make that evening.

“Fuck,” he said as his feet began to hurt.